


Rουιεττε Dαrεs (Thε Ηαυητ Οf)

by 7Threes



Series: Apocrypha is Upon Us [3]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: M/M, The Mars Volta, extension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-09 02:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10402071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7Threes/pseuds/7Threes
Summary: Σχοsκειεται jυηcτιοη ατ τhε rαιιrοαδ δειαγεδ.





	1. Σχο

I feel the guilt running through my fingertips as I rest my hand on the ink-written words that sit in Apocrypha.

I didn't want Apocrypha to ruin the pages, but it took Ruhekampf right to it. I became too greedy, and that's why.

It's my birthday today, March 21st.

Yet another year has passed, and the acumen hurts even more in his heart.

* * *

 

Apocrypha is upon us.  
You know it all too well  
When the wounds start to swell.

I fly at night  
Fights leave contrite.  
I reach for the sight  
With all of my might.  
Never want to lose the light.

Deloused I lick my wounds  
Like a hound short on his boons.  
Nocturnally skulking in suits  
The first two stole His fruits  
Like they got nothing to lose.  
We carouse our morals in booze.

Apocrypha is upon us.  
The acumen knows not what's true  
And it's difference between the illuse.

Sitting in the Comatorium  
They laugh at the historian.  
Ludibundus they pretend soulrend  
Drunkships in nadir lacking their sailor  
Bellowing in the winds in sails tailored.

I speak exo-vividly  
Boreous holes sickenly  
Swept spores of lies quickly  
Lying to the eyes of the youngly.  
We nod our heads dumbly.

Apocrypha is upon us.  
I see the light now  
Within the ends of my brow.

Gorges and forges  
Lined up by the morsels.  
Fall into me, who am I?  
Give into me,  
Knowledgeable suicide.

Funeral fires  
Hide the liars  
We are the riders  
On ironic spiders  
The bullous tire.

Apocrypha is upon us.  
Lepers scratched at wounds  
In the denial’s womb.

The acumen this,  
The acumen that,  
What does one need for slack?  
Tacks stack on the one with the knack  
Of embracing their simple lack.

We may be alone  
Not truthfully in atone.  
We wrong under impression of oblong  
The longness heads humming the song  
Heating the fire with winds of tongs.

* * *

 

I wish I didn't have to pretend anymore that I was the one who unleashed the misery upon them for my sake, and entertainment’s sake. Was it though?

I don't remember my name even if I hold onto it tighter than my fingers bid me to, my bones shaking at the cold around them. My fingers are sick of me, and want to come off. I try desperately to keep them. Without them I can no longer write or shove the sins into the closet and ignore, pretend behind my aviators that my eyes were always bright with happiness and not judgement, lick the dirt from under my devouring nails.

The ocean is cold like the grave.

It whispers to me to change it before it's too late, but I am afraid I no longer have the fingers that can touch the truth.

I have written it, and only it within my wonderful Ruhekampf. I gave Ruhekampf to Apocrypha out of my greed for attention, and that is a sin I can never shove behind closed doors.

* * *

 

Misery walks queerly on an oblong road, birthing lepers from fecal-plagued alleys while those in the abbey line the halls in tranquil illusion.


	2. Sκειεται

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Βοηεs οf mγ fιηεsτ sιηs.

He didn't want to face her because somehow he knew she would be upset. He didn't want to make her that way.

_Isn't that for the both of them?_

* * *

They say when a particle collides with another of an equal and opposite charge, that both particles will face mutual destruction.

A theory also suggests that the reaction causes an explosion with the power to create a whole new universe.

Kaneki and Amon; they were those particles. All seeing in a similar lens, it's rather interesting to see the universe they'll create after destroying this one.

Amon seeks out the one who killed his partner just for a simple drink in a mutual grace. He knows he's neglecting to speak about what he sought to do for so long. He’s nervous about what was seen and what wasn't by the new supposed king.

They're on the highway to collision course, the other dead ahead in the line of sight. They don't really care if they destroy themselves, just as long as their cause persists. Perhaps going out with a bang.

Kaneki is reluctant to impose or anything for that matter. Dreams are within his grasp, but they're locked behind corpses and bloodstreams. He wonders if what he's doing is truthfully right, constantly questioning and forgetting words once spoken in dreams before rebirth. He doesn't want to impose anything on Amon, either. He wants everything to be natural, at least in this state of things.

They both have figured out what Apocrypha is, too. Thinking instead of speaking has brought it to this.

Once the particles collided, leading to Floppy and Haise. Things that they were, and not content with.

They're parallel beings and never should touch. Yet, they have.

They've broken everything, down to the bones.

Best part is, Kaneki could name them all, but not know that he breaks them.

Kaneki and Amon only stand on the carapace, not in full sight of truth. They don't know it all, but they want to change it all; they are changing it all.

The bones of the Earth quake as they pass holding the insurmountable wills in their soles and the burning resolve in their eyes as they step the queer path of Misery along the oblong road.

They're meant to destroy because they're magnetized by one-another, curiosity burning in clairvoyant fury.

They pretend it's okay, hide the grief behind book or weights. Now that they're without, they don't want to hide it.

_But they do._

No speaking of the sins and strife that they longed.

 _Pretend_.

They decorate their spines with horrors to keep the other away, but it works in opposite to the desired effect.

No matter how strong the desire to keep away is, they never will.

They haven't learned a thing, as they speak not to the one they need.

* * *

“You like yours black, right?”

Touka stated more than asked as she prepared his cupful.

To him she was Rabbit, the killer of his teacher. He wonders if she is to Kaneki like Akira is to him; already has been through enough pain, don’t want to add anymore but it seems like both of them has failed gravely.

They didn't think the most pain would come from the loss of them.

He wants to ask questions here that he can't with Kaneki. There are some things about oneself that even we don't know.

But he doesn't.

He's too scared that she hates him. In fact, he’s sure she does. One little press, and it could all be over for this grace. This false grace.

Because they're pretending to be at peace, when all the airs cry is struggle.

 _Ruhekampf_.

* * *

_Ambivalent he is for seemingly no reason. He let the upcoming discord slip from his fingers again._

He is the King, but he refuses to bring fall under monarchy. He may be strong, but a king is nothing without his people; like a muffin is simply crumbs without their arrogance to hold them up.

He may be the King, but without his people he is lost. That's why he must prove to all people that his cause is great, and that the war would end in peace.

He knows as the King that there are those who will not settle for peace, because so many have died and resting will not satisfy their hunger for vengeance.

He tells them that before they may have peace, they must struggle. Before they are on equal grounds, some will die.

The struggle to accomplish peace.

 _Ruhekampf_.

* * *

_The bones of their resolve will become the frame in which the building blocks of peace will be cemented on._

_Even if that foundation may be upon their own graves._


	3. Jυηcτιοη

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rεβιrτh ιs ροτεητ αs α fοοιιsh ροιsοη.

They’re more similar than you’d think.

In a crowd you’d see them as two different colors under your lenses, but they're the same shade of nothing.

_What shade am I_ , I asked so many times. I forgot from birth, gave up from age, lost in the sticky fluid of time; either a form of tar or mucous, time always seemed to stick with me.

Their tar was sticky indeed, hard to get out of the boots, easy to clean off their fake faces. Their tar was red and smelling profoundly of decomposition; death and his gentle caress that can destroy merely.

Blood always could mark the shaking in their hands, the tremble in their footsteps, the cracks at their nails, the gaunt hunch of the spine; they were two spirits followed by death’s cunning and warm blanket, not knowing if they're here to suffer or to change.

Perhaps both.

Truthfully, there is no difference between death and time, because time brings death and death marks the passage of time.

Time exists where coherence does.

In a world not bound by our rules, perhaps they were born at their most complete forms; when they died. They returned to find where they came from.

Death may lick his greedy lips, laugh at mortal disarray, play at his bony hands as he sits, but death is also mercy.

For Kaneki and Amon, they sought death. They wanted to change the world and not live long enough to see it fail. Deeds done, they will seek peace within death without seeking reconciliation with each other. Truth is also part of death and time, an extant which shouldn't be known to that which lives. But it does, in those who see past fabrics of reality, who drive into their insanity deeper to relieve the pain. To keep it to themselves.

The junction is where they meet, connect, wonder. It's a fleeting moment, but they think of it as the beginning and end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, butcif it was longer than it wouldn't exactly feel as conveying.


	4. Ατ Τhε Rαιιrοαδ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thε fαιsε ρrοmιsεδ.

The railroad is dead, full of his promising whispers to the husks of the living, filling with grief and despair. Kaneki and Amon sit there, waiting almost impatiently for the day death finally whispers to them, or when they take their time in their own hands.

Hence we call it the railroad to death.

Because the train railed on the creaky and rusted burning path of time, the cabins are full of each the essence of death. The cabins are thousand-fold, representing a generation. The cabins far ahead are full of filled husks and the dead, some still standing to tell their stories. Nobody remembers the front of the train, it's completely devoid of any life, like all of the front cabins.

A self-crafted apocalypse stained in blood, schizophrenic paranoia looming across her chapped lips and mummified refuge; cadavers buried with the children, those which lacked the will to survive. Sicknesses are bewildering, the foolhardy fall ill, bubonic infection spreads through the falsities of lymph nodes as the louse bites deeply to drown in viscera like the filthy parasite it is. Death is much like the despair of “who’s next?” during a pandemic.

There is a haunting gas on the train, ghastly essence, revenant residue running through the rudders, whispers of so much that could've been, how if only you had done something about the lingering misery, opened your mouths to be deemed as lepers like the accursed monsters feeding so rashly on the people. If only you had, then perhaps we wouldn't be stuck here. Not at this lackluster meeting.

Knells like the songbirds that couldn't and the clockwork so broken, the simple lack. Those are rises and sets of the superheated mass of plasma to be our salvation and destruction.

It is uncertain when it will be our destruction, but without it we have met destruction. It burns paths and reveals the darkest crevices, in hallow your body becomes, eyes merely too weak for the ultraviolet radioactive wavelengths of what we call the sun, our star.

Kaneki and Amon tried to touch it, so that they could protect it all. They couldn't and shouldn't but they tried and died together. The oneness of death may not literally be the state of lacking life, but is the state of lacking being. Without their resolve that this time they would burn all the way into the sun and die, complete; or so they thought.

There's still so much to do, to sing, to dance, to see.

Hence at the railroad, they wait. Not for death to take them, they escape their destiny-filled whispers to find their own choice of death; even if it meant touching the sun again, and burning up their waxy wings.


	5. Dειαγεδ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Τhε εηδ.

Delayed, forever and ever postponed in mutual uncertainty that the other can handle, if the other cares enough, if the words were too heavy, too heavy, too much. They never knew what too much was anymore, their compulsive and repulsive habits gnawing like a gangrenous beast bursting with decay and the juices of bacterial breakdown. They are the beasts, and their habits are the beast as well.

Like a cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy, killing themselves slowly with the cancer, not knowing if it will be the savior to their absent strand ends from exponential growth.

Like early estrogen kills dreams and makes freaks too short to ride, too short to play, too short to see.

**_Sιανεs το ουr οωη gεηεs._ **

**_Σλαβες το ουρ ον γενες._ **

Degrade, deconstruct, evaporate the plans the kiss of mother and hopes along the way delivered by her whisper like death. Perhaps she is death, bringing the souls back and making them suffer the same mistakes.

_**Hahahaha.** _

So _dull_ that one could voice their lacking humor upon paper and pen.

_Roulette Dares, Roulette Dares, Roulette Dares, Roulette Dares, Roulette Dares_ ; save the others by dying yourselves; loving others by sacrificing yourselves; death to you, shall you find peace in it. I dare you to die, dare you to leave them all behind.

_Roulette Dares._

They're not new to this uncertainty of death and destiny, they've touched it so intimately it's almost like a caress. Perhaps they couldn't destroy it like they wanted because the wings that carried them would not let them soar higher.

Now they have better wings and pinpoint lens, viable resolve. They return to the sun to cool its horrible radiation, destroy it's less-poisoning solution.

Cyanide or deadly nightshade are the options. One tastes sweeter, and brings you to death in harmonic peace. The other tastes of almonds and is so overrated, overknown, and under-understood. Cyanide is the sun, but it blocks the harmful and turbulent radiation from smashing through the Earth. Deadly nightshade is that grace that ends us swiftly as we ignorantly solve our smaller problem.

We cease to see the forest for the trees.

So sad we are, so ignorant we are, so dull we are; and we let them destroy our sun. We believe that it is the best option, and is compared to the self-caused destruction of the Earth by our decedent ignorance.

Washuu, lies, snakes the wily.

We destroy the world as we know it for a solution written in delayed reconciliation, blood to be sure.

**Thus ends the five-fronted Roulette Dares, pyramid of the end foretold.**


End file.
